


The Counterfeit of Death

by toachilles



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Besides George, DNF, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Friends to Lovers, Gay, Hospitals, Hotels, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Mental Health Issues, No Smut, No real first name usage, One Shot, Possible Character Death, Sapnap (mentioned), dreamnotfound, implied past suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29276049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toachilles/pseuds/toachilles
Summary: Dream is in the UK after George ends up in the hospital. Unsure of whether or not his best friend will make it, he begins to have familiar dreams.A one-shot about Dream coming to terms with his feelings for George in a series of memory-like dreams, all the time praying that he isn't too late while George is in unstable condition in the hospital. Sweet moments in addition to some (not too heavy) angst.TW // internalized homophobia, hospitals, mentions of death/prior thoughts of suicide. Be safe! Also made Dream and George the same age for the purposes of this. No real first-name usage besides George. Staged Pre-COVID.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 64





	The Counterfeit of Death

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thanks so much for reading, this is my first time posting on ao3 ever so I hope you like it :) Please leave any thoughts in comments! Also, please be careful with all of the tws above (and in tags)! This shouldn't be too bad or graphic but be safe :)

He had been in the United Kingdom for less than 24 hours, using a Visa he had originally got to meet up with his best friend to now look at him as if he were in a glass case- he held his hand desperately, their fingers interlocking and Dream trying to transfer some of his body heat to frail form. He promised Sapnap over a short call before he got on the plane to stay strong, and he really intended to. But with George in and out of consciousness and him having no answers (whatever the nurse had told him he had barely understood in the height of panic-induced hysteria, hid convincingly under his neutral expression, and calling George’s mother seemed selfish), he was staring at his best friend, a man who had intermittently been the arm keeping him off the ledge himself, a reassuring voice on late-night phone calls, and of which the promise of any pain occasionally pushed him out of reckless episodes of self-endangerment, kept him on the sidewalk of the interstate. 

He’d been sitting by his side for hours, taking no food or water. He’d been silent, mainly, only occasionally checking his phone and listening to a playlist George had shared with him when they were much younger. A doctor had tried to word to him gently that there was a decent likelihood that George wouldn’t wake up for that day, or maybe at all, and receiving that information was like dying in a dream- your brain can’t comprehend it, so you wake up. So Dream looked down at the floor, shook his head, and fell deeper into the delusional darkness that usually only visits our subconscious. The doctor, a tall man with medium-tone skin and black hair, had looked up at the ceiling, unsure of what to do, and sensing the radiance of darkness, had walked out without another word after checking some things that Dream didn’t have the energy to want to understand.

If he stayed staring at his eyes, George was only sleeping. It was around 8 PM, and visiting hours ended at 9. If he had it his way, Dream would be in this chair for as long as it took before George stirred from what he had conjured as a nightmare. He’d run his hands through his dark brown hair and then George would be honest and things would get better from there. The heart-beat monitor wouldn’t plateau. It doesn’t have to be easy. Nothing has to be easy. It just has to be there. It just can’t be the end of the story. It just can’t be.

The hotel room is dark and cold. The dark blue walls are unforgiving. It’s 2 AM, and Dream’s been spending the night staring at the smooth ceiling, trying desperately to think of nothing. For a few minutes, he tried to scroll on Twitter, but even the sight of George in profile pictures had made him feel a sadness so deep that he was sure an MRI would expose a bruised heart. He laid there, on the bed, with too many questions and too little answers and not even a vague semblance of closure. His anxieties tapped his shoulders like cruel poltergeists. He was exhausted. He took a deep breath in then began to sob.

He muffled his cries between his hands- it was strange how, even now, what he’d been taught at home haunted him so persistently he couldn’t bring it upon himself to as much as cry at his best friend withering away in a hospital room as he sat in a foreign country with no money in its currency besides what he had paid the hotel fare with for what could be an indefinite amount of time. A mocking part of his subconscious, even then, was chastising him for tears, calling him mean words and accusing him of things he didn’t want to think about. If George were there, he thought, he’d tell him it was okay. He wasn’t.

It was only 9 PM back in America. Sapnap, chained to the USA by a lack of Visa picture (an inside joke that had instantly lost any semblance of hilarity when either of them received that dreadful call), likely couldn’t handle anything Dream was about to rant about, and knowing George, he wouldn’t want any of their other friends to know, and even if he could tell someone, calling them in this state wouldn’t crack the mask he held over his face as much as shatter it. 

He closed his eyes and saw the stars.

. . .

_“Dream?”_

Dream shook his head. He put a hand to his face and felt the warmth.

_“Dream, come on!”_

He opened his eyes at the exclamation, and quickly noticed that he was holding a game controller. He looked at the TV- he was playing an older version of Minecraft, and quickly acclimated himself with that. A creeper was standing by a shabby cobblestone and oak house, which he quickly killed using a stone sword in his inventory. His reflexes were clunkier, and although he could contribute that partially to his inexperience in console Minecraft, his hands seemed smaller than he was used to. He tried to place himself, and only then did he realize that the voice he had heard was coming from next to him. He wasn’t wearing headphones. The world seemed familiar… 

_“Okay, look, I only have to finish the roof… did you get any of the spruce I needed?”_

Dream looked around- there were beige walls, a popcorn ceiling, and a relatively loud air conditioner in the corner. A smile reached his lips- this was his childhood bedroom. A poster for the 1975 was hung up next to the small TV screen he was playing on, and the door to the hallway was closed. The tartan green duvet cover and white pillowcases was adjacent to a small desk, where the brand-new laptop he had gotten for his eleventh birthday that August was situated. It was a decade or so ago. 

He didn’t need to look to recognize his voice. It was the same higher pitch he had first heard when asking for help on a plug-in for a Minecraft server, much more accented in youth. He grinned, gazing at the side anyway, and seeing George’s smiling profile look briefly back at him before focusing again on the screen. Dream checked his inventory and innerly remembered how to play Minecraft on XBox before throwing him the two stacks he had gotten.

 _“Thank youuu,”_ George sang and Dream laughed at the melody of his voice. It might’ve been that moment that he first realized it, but this version of the first Minecraft world they had ever played together didn’t include the pain that had appeared in his chest, the dreadful acceptance of a fate he knew even then he’d never properly evade. He just smiled and went back to killing the mobs that occasionally tried to wander near George, whose character only wore a leather chestplate. He remembered this world- it had taken them two weeks to beat the Ender Dragon, with Dream letting George get the final hit after doing basically all of the other work. George was excited, and Dream had smiled brightly. This was the first day; George had wanted to get to building the house straight away. Dream just smiled and scooted closer to his friend, feeling the cool air from the air conditioner.

_“Of course.”_

He blinked again and saw the beach. The water was warm and clear and lapped at his feet, which he quickly recognized felt realer than it realistically should’ve for what had to have been a dream. He knew when and where he was and recognized the sunset a few moments after looking over it. He remembered subconsciously imagining that a boat would appear then, carrying him across the sea to Britain, where he’d run the length of the country to George’s townhouse and just about knock down the front door. He must be older now, he realized, looking around and remembering who he’d been with when he came down here; perhaps he was alone, driving in his Dad’s Honda. He had sat at the shore, listening to a song by Arctic Monkeys from his lime-green iPod.

This time wasn’t a surprise. He looked to the side and saw George next to him in the sand, looking out at the ocean. More details of the real life memory came back; he had sat at the coast and realized that the safest he would ever feel was when he had George’s arms around him, the happiest he’d feel was when his voice was in his ears. The realization was uncomfortable and unnerving and he had cried for the rest of his time there, driving back trying to wipe his tears so his parents couldn’t tell. The next day, he had sat all night in his bed, praying to a God he had long since stopped believing in to heal him of love, shaking and sobbing on his bed when it didn’t immediately work. The resolution that it never would come only sitting uncomfortably in church pews and listening to the old pastor give his sermon.

None of that happened now. He’s 16 years old, his hair was in an awkward long style he had tried (and failed) at making look good, and George was there. None of the tears came. He felt strangely content, more than he ever has when thinking about things like this. 

_“I did the same thing, you know,”_ George said, his voice deeper than the last time. There was a sense of slowness to each word as Dream examined the details of his perfect face. Light sprinkles of freckles rested below his eyes, highlighted by the golden light of the sun. His eyes were deep shades of orange in this lighting, and it reminded him of the mangoes Dream used to pick from the farmer’s market with his older sister. He’d told her first, and she’d hugged him and assured him he’d be okay. There was medication in being in George’s presence the same way there was in being with his sister, but it was tangier and sweeter and felt more private. It eclipsed into boundaries Dream has tried to ignore for years. His philosophising of all of this in a dream is unusual, he decides, but not invalid. 

_“I sat at the pier in Brighton and looked across at the sea and thought of you,”_ George explained carefully, _“And I think I knew then that I’d love you for a long time. No matter if you loved me back,”_ he almost whispered the last part. Dream nodded, still calm, and brought his hand closer to George’s. Their fingers wove together, and Dream fell.

 _“You’ve saved my life, you know,”_ Dream said simply, not looking at George. The cathartic nature of this world had dropped his usual insecurity, and he tightened his grip on George’s hand. _“I wanted to… give up… so many times, and I didn’t, because I knew that I couldn’t die without ever getting to see you. I wanted to hurt myself… badly, a lot. Sometimes I tried. But I didn’t go through, I didn’t… full send, because I knew you’d cry if you knew I did. And because I wanted to meet you. Because of you.”_ It’s the first time Dream’s ever confessed that, and even if none of this is quite reality, it’s close enough. George simply nods and squeezes his hand. Something tells Dream that there’s a deeper meaning to that, but he can’t process it now. He’ll break. 

_“Sleep, delicious and profound, the very counterfeit of death,”_ George said. Dream laughed, smiling at the sky. Quoting Homer, an interest George had held since reading _The Odyssey_ for school in Year 10, was very much in-character. He felt life on his fingertips and it quickly crawled to the forefront of his heart. There’s a softness to the air, and a song is beginning to play in the background of his thoughts. The notes elude rationality. 

_“Could I kiss you?”_ George asked, and Dream nodded without hesitation. A moment later their lips met. It was shy and fleeting, and it didn’t stop Dream’s hurt as he thought it would. If it did, it wasn’t uncomfortable. George withdrew first, slowly, a hand still on Dream’s face. Dream stared at him, dazed.

 _“Is any of this real?”_ Dream asked then, unable to continue the masquerade ball they had been acting. George shrugged.

_“If you want it to be.”_

He wakes up to his alarm. It’s six in the morning and it registers only then that he was dreaming, although the songs he’s listened to describing the realms of astral projection seemed more accurate. The separation between who he was in sleep and who he should’ve been at that age- the acceptance, the peace- it was uncharacteristic considering the chaos that had surrounded his world for the past few restless days.

He walks out to the balcony and looks at the ocean.

And there he is again, in that miserable waiting room. Visiting hours start at 8 and he’s there at 7:45. He’s the first person in the room, sitting by George’s side and biting his tongue to not cry. He puts a hand gently on his chest, prays to the same God he abandoned in his youth to bring life to his eyes. Anyone could’ve told him an array of things in that moment and he wouldn’t remember them. He closed his eyes as if the words would clear, and found himself opening them to George still lying there. He’s a minute away from breaking down entirely. The doctors had told him again, today, that there was a possibility that George wouldn’t wake up. He had prayed and prayed and prayed. He had asked God to please exchange their souls fates, to allow George to carry on. He had thrashed in intermittent manifestation with evil monsters and forces, whose names he had read for a psychology class in high school and some in his own experience, ones he had never wanted to encounter again. George’s mom, a woman so kind to her soul that Dream had pleaded with God of her state to keep George here, had explained to him warily what the situation most likely was. He couldn’t forgive himself for not noticing.

. . .

_“Dream?”_

He’s in his living room, back home. He’s sitting on the couch and opens his eyes. There’s 80s music in the background lightly, playing on a radio he bought at a thrift store. He looks around, trying to find the voice, until eventually he hears someone descending the stairs. George walks into the room, his eyes vibrant and his hair combed. Dream smiles.

_“Dream, are you okay?”_

George goes to sit with him, right next to him. It takes him a moment to understand what’s being said, to remember where he is and why.

_“If you are.”_

_“I need to wake up,”_ George hums, looking to the side. Dream nods in agreeance.

 _“Please do. I have a lot I need to tell you,”_ Dream mumbles, looking down. It’s the most he can figure out right now. 

_“I’m sorry, Dream.”_

_“Please, don’t be.”_

_“I am, though,”_ George said, rising slowly. The music slows and they meet eyes. _“I should’ve told you more. I just didn’t want to worry you. And now I don’t know if I can, really. I don’t know if we’ll… we’ll be able to meet again. In real life, I mean. The one where… the one where you wake up.”_

 _“Don’t say that,”_ Dream responded, too quickly. He’s feeling his heart accelerate, his breaths quicken. _“Please, don’t say that.”_

 _“It’s the truth,”_ George said, extending a hand that Dream tentatively took. He steps backwards, and Dream forwards. The couch began to disappear.

 _“Did you know I loved you?”_ Dream asks.

 _“No. But I loved you too. I hoped you did, really, but I wasn’t sure. I never… I never thought you’d be okay with that, Dream, really,”_ George responded, somewhat mournfully. Dream nodded.

_“I wasn’t.”_

_“Oh.”_

_“No- not because of you. It was a me thing, George. I…”_ Dream tried desperately.

 _“I know,”_ George almost laughed, _“Sleep, proficient and profound, the very counterfeit of death. When you sleep you’re escaping it, right? That’s why you’re okay with it right now.”_ Dream sighed, spun George around. He’s delicate.

 _“Yeah.”_ He paused, inhaled, and then blurted out, _“Can you please try, George?”_ George frowned.

_“I don’t think I can.”_

_“You have to, George. I can’t do this without you.”_

_“You could.”_

_“I don’t want to.”_

_“I’m sorry-”_

_“Don’t be,”_ Dream pleaded. There are sobs behind his throat he can’t push down. The music is classical by now. He speaks over it, _“George, you saved me. Can I save you? Please. Just… anything. I’ll take your place. I’ll pay the medical bills, you can stay here. Or I’ll move to England, I don’t care. You can take a break from posting, I’ll pay for everything. I’ll spend every day with you. I’ll love you like you need to be loved and then I’ll get you the professional help you need so you can feel it. I’ll stop… I’ll stop doubting myself so much, everything. Please. Just come with me. Don’t fucking… just don’t leave, okay? Please come back with me. Please,”_ he’s openly breaking down, hardly still dancing. George’s hands travel further up Dream’s forearms until they’re chest to chest. George kissed Dream softly on the lips.

_“Okay.”_

. . .

Dream wakes up to the doctors telling him that George will survive. He’s been out, they say, for only around an hour, and in that hour they ran some tests and administered some medication that was able to stabilize him. He nods, checks his phone. George’s mother, coming from London, has made her way here, and Sapnap had texted that he got his passport picture approved and should be there within the following days after sorting out some things in Texas. No one else really knows besides some of George’s friends from the UK and sister, who will both be coming later that day. He takes the opportunity to go compose himself in the bathroom- sighing and breathing deeply.

He looks in the mirror, runs his hands through his hair, and accepts some truths. He doesn’t know how much of the dreams he’s had in the past day are real or fake, but he doesn’t think it matters much either. He thinks of the sea. Standing on those tiles, he receives a text. 

**George**

Hey i asked them to send this but im up 

I gave them my password for this they said they’re not supposed to do this technically but seeing as you’ve been sitting there for probably ever i thought you should know that you can’t come into my room for a while and that also if you don’t go get something to eat I’ll hurt you

Thank u for being here Dream

Also please get me a copy of the Odyessy Im gonna be here for a while and I don’t think they want me on my phone

Thx ily dream

**Dream**

I love you too

**Author's Note:**

> First time posting to ao3! Tell me if you liked it/if you have any criticism/praise/whatever. Kudos/bookmarks/comments r all highly appreciated! 
> 
> -toachilles


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